


Ash Painted Lips

by kalewrites



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Punisher (TV 2017)
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Mentions of Injuries, Partners to Lovers, Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-02
Updated: 2020-10-02
Packaged: 2021-03-07 16:55:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,080
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26760976
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kalewrites/pseuds/kalewrites
Summary: Frank is your lifeline, protecting you like only he can do but you harbour not-so-secret feelings for him that threaten to shake the foundation of this steady, necessary partnership.“There is pain in the fire, but beauty in the ashes.”
Relationships: Frank Castle/Reader
Kudos: 25





	Ash Painted Lips

**Author's Note:**

> This was a drabble request from my love @avengerofyourheart which took on a life of its own. Dialogue was “If you slit my throat tonight, I’m gonna have a hard time forgiving you for that.”

The motel was dingy. Low key, Frank called it.  _ Right _ . 

The neon sign out front had a few missing bulbs, the letters didn’t even remotely resemble a name anymore but it didn't matter. It held it’s aura, the too bright sign in the shadows of a long forgotten town, desperate melancholy hanging in the air and clinging to your bones as you follow him to the room. He doesn’t check to see if you still follow, he knows you have nowhere else to go. 

Frank glances to each side as he opens the door, always automatically marking his surroundings, checking for escape routes, for ambush opportunities. The door thuds against the wall of the room, the sound itself echoes in the empty lot behind you and further into the surrounding trees. 

If loneliness was a place, you think, it would be here.

Frank switches on the light and continues inside, his bag is tossed beside the bed and he turns expectant, probably wondering why the door was still open and you were still standing on the concrete outside instead of the mouldy green carpet. When you say nothing, he raises an eyebrow and waits.

“There’s only one bed.” You say, stupidly, finally closing the door behind you and trying not to think about the sound the carpet made when you stepped inside. 

“Better they think we are a couple.” He says, taking his gun from his back and sitting on the table, another from his ankle. 

“Right.” Because what else could you say. He’s not wrong, the people after you were no doubt still out there, scouring the roads for any signs of either of you. A shudder runs through you at the thought. And still, you can’t help but sneak furtive glances at the bed, which looks exactly as it should, simple, average, maybe even a little comfy. Not at all like the bomb you imagine it to be. 

You shed your jacket then, try and fail to hide your wince when pain lashes through your shoulder at the movement. Frank is in front of you in an instant, the fury in his eyes would make you cringe if not for the gentle way his hands pull the sleeve of your top down your shoulder so he can see. A walking contradiction, like always. 

“You didn’t tell me you were hurt.” He says, his voice so low it scrapes the gutters, fingers delicate as they inspect, “There’s glass in it.” 

“I didn’t notice.” You tell him honestly, watching as he pulls out what looks like a hastily prepared first aid kit from his bag. He brandishes tweezers at you, the tiny prongs look childlike in his hands and you fight the laugh that bubbles up, knowing he’ll think the opposite of you if you let it loose. 

“That’ll be the adrenaline.” He doesn’t give you much warning before he dumps the contents of your water bottle over the wound, quickly and efficiently pulls the glass from it. You stay as still as you can, letting only the sharp hiss of breath escape between your teeth as he works, try not to focus on how close his face is to yours. “I need to put a few stitches in it, yeah?”

“Mmm, okay.” You can’t stand the way you sound, that you can’t help but show the pain in your voice when you know he’s likely in a worse state than you right now. You eye the offending dark patch at his side with suspicion before you feel the telltale sign of the needle piercing your skin. You hate this part, and so you find yourself glancing at him instead, watching the concentration in his face as he works. Wondering, not for the first time, what it might feel like to give in to that urge to smooth out the harsh frown lines above his nose, or run a finger along those infuriatingly soft lips. Another contradiction, those lips set against the hard lines of his face, so often punctuated by bruises and blood. 

“There, all done.” He looks at you then, too quick for you to hide the road your thoughts had taken and stills, hand still clasped around your bicep and face still inches from yours. Your heart hammers so loudly in your chest you fear he might hear it. There's a heated ache in the air, a sudden scorch that makes you burn from the inside out, parched throat and desert lips. You run your tongue over those lips and try to keep all thoughts of his from your mind but instead, find yourself watching as Frank tracks the movement himself, scalds the newly found moisture with a look alone. 

He blinks, once, then twice and releases his now tightened grasp on your arm, steps back with a forced casualness and you close your eyes to kidnap your mind, to try to find some balance in your gaze before you let it fall on him again. The sound of the bathroom door closing forces them open, the now empty room fades back to the cold, bitterness of before.

You wait your turn, not so patiently, picking away the edges of the faded throw on the bed, bag perched on your lap like you're waiting to run and not to shower.  _ You're always waiting to run _ , a somber voice reminds you. He doesn't take long, the water shuts off after a few short minutes and the door opens in even less, dressed in a black tshirt and sweatpants. He looks very pointedly at the wall behind you.

“Waters cold.”

“Of course it is.” You roll your eyes on your way past him, desperate now to wash away the blood and dirt of the day, a familiar ritual these days. Another eyeroll. 

The water is probably closer to freezing, you think, as you dance under the stream and expect at any second to feel the drops turn solid. It’s probably for the best, a cold shower to chase away the heat from your eyes. Frank will never want you the way you want him. He simply can’t. You repeat it again and again, trying to squash the tiny but of hope that always lives inside you, that always insists no matter how many nights you share together in rooms just like this, no matter how many times he turns from you just like tonight. You force yourself to stand there until the pink water turns clear and your skin turns numb. 

You find an old hairdryer in the bathroom and use it to dry your hair as best you can, if nothing else to simply chase the chill from your bones. You glance at yourself in the mirror, wondering what he sees when he looks at you, wondering if he sees how you feel written so plainly across your face. After a full minute of staring, or stalling, you finally exit the bathroom to see Frank taping a knife to the bottom of his bedside table. Without thought, you sigh and he raises his eyebrows at you in question. 

“If you slit my throat tonight, I’m gonna have a hard time forgiving you for that.” You joke, but even as you say it your mind drifts to nights past where Frank wakes suddenly and violently from a dream, where you lay quiet in the dark and pretend you don’t witness this private agony of his. 

He frowns, instead of laughs, like he knows all too well where your mind just went, “I won’t hurt you.” 

You climb into bed beside him, clinging helplessly to the edge of the mattress as darkness blooms around you. He is still for so long you wonder if he’s already asleep and yet, you say into that echoing dark, “I know, Frank.” 

It doesn’t take as long as you thought it would for sleep to claim you. It takes even less for Franks moans to wake you.

The bed jolts with his sharp movements, head tossing from side to side in time with his agonised moans, “No. No, not them. Not them.” He doesn’t shout, but then he never does, just suffers as quietly as his body will allow him. You turn to him automatically, called closer to soothe but cautiously, knowing what he was capable of doing in a few short seconds it would take him to wake and realise. 

“Frank.” You try, pushing against his shoulder with your fist but staying out of reach, “Frank, wake up.” 

He doesn’t wake, simply whispers his pain into the space between, his every word is a bullet, every noise a wound. Fingers wound so tight in the blankets, the fabric stretching far beyond its limits. You hate seeing him like this, hate not being able to help him. A low whine erupts from his throat, a horrible, desperate sound and your fingers move without thought, hand cups his jaw with featherlike touches. Nothing at all like the way you shoved him just moments before, and yet, it’s those touches that pull him from the dream.

Suddenly, and forcefully, his hand is vice like on your wrist and you're pulled towards him, breath pushed from your lungs as you land against him with a soft thud. Wild eyes meet yours, dark pools of terror and it’s only when the pain of his grip flashes across your face that recognition finally settles on his. The terror morphes into regret, his grip loosens but doesn’t leave and he swallows loudly, a few times before forcing out, “M’sorry. Did I....did I hurt you?”

The pain in your wrist dissipates at the torment in his voice, “No, Frank. I’m ok.” You notice that he still hasn’t let go of your wrist, that you're still pressed up against his chest with nowhere to go. You can’t look away, won’t look away, just stare further into the fathomless, midnight eyes and listen as your heart roars,  _ thunderous _ , inside your chest. The seconds pass, agonisingly slow and yet still, he doesn’t move or release you. It’s long passed the moment he would normally turn away and you can’t stop that tiny spark of hope within you. Even now, with his pain so laid bare, you still want him. 

“Frank…” You whisper, if only to capture the memory of saying his name when his eyes are looking at you this way, fire-burned coals that threaten to combust at any moment. You see it, the want is his eyes, the  _ hunger _ , but you also see the agony, the torment and you wonder which will win out. You feel the weight of your hope gather in your gut. His eyes drift closed, taking the battle within and your breath catches in your throat when he pulls your wrist to him, slowly,  _ so slowly _ , presses his lips against the delicate skin there. 

It’s nothing at all, and yet, it’s everything at once. 

He opens his eyes again, fluttery glances between your eyes and your lips, still the raging of a war unwon within them. Still, his fingers remain anchored around your wrist. 

He nudges forward, rests his forehead against yours with more intention than he means, eyes darting down and the back again, almost like he can’t help it. You let your own eyes close, no longer able to stand the pain you so easily cause him, guilt and grief reaching up from your gut and wrapping a hand around your throat.  _ It’s OK, Frank _ , you want to say, try to say through the squeezing hand but only a soft, painful gasp escapes. You know then that if this is all he gives you, if this is all he can manage that it will be enough. The feel of his lips on your skin and the fire in his eyes, it will be enough. 

You try to free your hand but his grip only tightens, pulls you closer to let your fingers rest on his jaw again, holding them there with that gentle firmness he has. You force yourself to look at him, barely have time to register the fierceness in his face before his lips find yours, soft but vehement, like he’s going to kiss away the demons that live behind his eyes and pass occasionally to yours. There’s no room for worry inside your head, anything and everything that isn’t the feel of Frank's lips pressed against yours is simply gone, forcibly removed by the curve of his mouth as it moves down your jaw and back. 

Wildfire kisses engulf you, the heat spreads until your blood threatens to boil inside your veins. It thrills you and terrifies you, this feeling, that there was this whole other realm of human experience you’d underestimated. When the want and need were rooted so entirely in your bones in a way it never has been before. 

His fingers grip under your ribcage, twisting in the material of your top as your own slip further up his jaw and into his hair, tugging him closer still. Taking as much of him as you can, stealing the moments before he undoubtedly comes back to himself, before he puts the wall back up and you're left with just the memories of the heat. Instead, he grips you tighter, kisses you harder, and rolls up and over till he's settled his weight on top of you. It’s better than you imagined, feeling the weight of him over you, tasting the hunger he keeps locked away so palpable on his lips. He pulls back to look at you, fire and fury held in his gaze and you wonder if this is the moment, fingers already slipping down to memorise his face, the feel of his lips and the sharpness of his jaw. 

He surprises you both when instead, he growls low, “Tell me to stop.” 

You watch him for a few seconds, breathing hard above you, the barely contained blaze in his eyes and wait for any of that regret to surface, for anything within you to not want this even if it’s just for the night, for the moment. It doesn’t come.

So, with what little breath you can find, you whisper right back, “Don’t stop.” 

He knew, you think, that you would say it because no sooner had the words left your mouth, Frank transforms. You see it so plainly when he releases himself from the guilt of wanting you, see the way his muscles change and his face follows. He somehow relaxes and tenses simultaneously, relaxing into the moment and tensing with intent. The span of a lifetime built into a moment.

When he leans down to kiss you again, you realise exactly how much he had been holding back, wonder momentarily how deep this fire goes and get so willingly lost in the flames. Your fingers explore, scald a path over his skin and make quick work of his clothes, revealing all that solid, gritty muscle to your greedy touches. His scars standout even in the dark, a patchwork story written across his skin that you take careful time to memorise, storing each one away in your mind. 

His newly unrestrained hands draw patterns over your skin, making a map of his own as you sigh into each touch. When he kisses his way down your neck, you fight the urge to check for ashy marks left behind by the scorch of his lips. His teeth graze the meat of your neck, sink in enough to just be aware of them and not enough to hurt. The gesture feels possessive, but tender, and your fingertips respond automatically, gripping him tight enough to make your bones ache. 

There’s not even an inch of space between you, lips to hips to toes. It thrills you, it terrifies you. 

The heat is rolling up your body in waves, unrelenting, and settling low in your gut. He’s everywhere, tongue and teeth and hips, living gasoline on the open flame of your want. You feel the coil of your restraint snap at the nudge of his hips, pull and urge him to you with a renewed urgency, needing more, needing  _ him _ . His answering growl makes your vision blur.

Hot tipped fingers gather you up and he watches from ferverous eyes as he pushes into you, slow and deliberate, matching your sigh with one of his own. His forehead falls to ours again, breathing turned harsh in the space between, and you see your eyes reflected in his, see the way they burn fierce for him. You notice, quietly, that his burn the same.

He moves,  _ finally _ , rolls forward and up and it earns a mirrored groan, he carries the momentum through into the next roll, and then the next, each one licking fire up your spine. Had it ever felt like this, you wonder? Had you ever been so consumed? And that’s exactly what it is, being consumed, because there isn’t a single part of you that isn’t lit up by his touch, or molten by a look. Your soul is nothing more than embers and ash. He kisses you, frantic, just a need to have his mouth on you, swallows up your gasps like he is greedy for them. You arch into his touch, shudder with every roll of his hips and then his hand grips low on your neck, palm on your clavicle and you moan into the feel of it, the weight of it there. Another possessive gesture made tender for being unthinking. 

“Fuck.” He groans, watching your response, “You’re perfect.” 

You answer him with your lips, let your teeth scrape the length of his neck but lose the battle for cognizance when his hips snap harder, more precise, eliciting a steady stream of moans instead. You feel the fire within you building, stoked by the curve of his mouth under your jaw and the weight of his hands over your heart. It’s a rush of roaring flames, burning away your tethers to the earth until your floating skyward, carried away by the smoke filled clouds and ashen winds. Frank whispers his own release into your neck, melting muscles and simmering eyes. He kisses the underside of your jaw, soft and wet, and you let yourself basque in his attention for however long he’ll give it, wondering, hopelessly, what the morning will bring. 

Despite your best efforts, you feel it, the change, feel his scorched handprint over your heart. 

When he looks at you, you know he feels it, too. 


End file.
